


Thanksgiving

by PFL (msmoat)



Category: I Spy (1965)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2010-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmoat/pseuds/PFL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mom's Thanksgiving dinner is powerful magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanksgiving

**Author's Note:**

> A short story written for the prompt: Mom's cooking.

“And then, when it was all over, and the bad guys were where they should be, and the good guys—in other words, me—were about to get their reward… Do you know what happened? Do you? I bet you do. I bet you a million double-dollars you do. Don’t you? C’mon Scotty.” He could hear the hoarseness in his own voice. He could hear the fear. “You’re going to make me do all the work, aren’t you? We’re supposed to be partners, man.” 

Scotty remained silent, his eyes closed.

“All right, then, I’ll tell you. My reward, after all the shenanigans, all the heroic trouble I went to, and all that work undercover. And the wonderful, gorgeous, delectable—did I tell you she was beautiful?—Marie Claire, who was completely uninvolved in the shenanigans, turned me down flat.” He shook his head. “Yes, yes she did. She told me: “Ah, my dear. You are too innocent for me.

“Me! Innocent! Too innocent!” Kelly watched Scotty’s calm, withdrawn face. Nothing. He closed his eyes for a moment. “Scotty.”

He reached out and took Scotty’s slack hand in his grasp. He ignored the machines; he ignored the surveillance he was certain was happening. What did it matter? Talk to him, they’d told him. But that didn’t seem to matter either.

“Scotty. C’mon. C’mon Wilfred, I’m ready to go home. This is getting old, man.” He felt the tremor in his own hand, and nothing from Scotty’s. 

“Alexander.” He drew in a deep breath—as deep as he could with what felt like a pressure band around his chest. “I don’t think much of your welcome home, you know.” And the Department—the fucking Department that had sent Scotty out on his own while Kelly had been undercover. They couldn’t work alone anymore—it didn’t work. Dammit.

“What am I supposed to tell your mother, huh?” He looked again at Scotty’s unresponsive face. “She wants you to come home, Scotty. Can’t you hear her calling you? All through the streets of Philadelphia. ‘Alexander Scott!’ You can’t ignore her, man. You can ignore me, but—”

He sighed, and closed his eyes again, slumping a bit toward the hospital bed. He was so damn tired. His throat was raw. “She’d cook for us, you know. She’s cooking right now. It’s almost Thanksgiving, isn’t it? She’s expecting us. You can smell it, can’t you? Turkey, roasted to perfection, stuffed with sage sausage dressing. She needs you to carve it, Scotty. You know I’d make a hash of it. We—I—need you.”

His leaned the bed, his hand still holding Scotty’s. “And there’d be more, wouldn’t there? Cornbread so good it would melt in your mouth. Candied yams. Buttermilk biscuits. Macaroni and cheese, because you sister always wants that, doesn’t she? And you’d steal your share as well. Mashed potatoes and giblet gravy. And dessert, oh…dessert—sweet potato pie, and pecan pie.”

He lowered his head, rested his forehead on Scotty’s thigh. “Scotty… How can we have Thanksgiving without you?” How could he go on at all without Scotty?

“Collard greens.” The voice was rough.

Kelly opened his eyes, but he didn’t move. His heart gave a great thump, then seemed to freeze. “What?”

“Collard…greens.” Scotty coughed. “You..forgot—”

Kelly straightened. “You don’t eat greens.” He kept hold of Scotty’s hand.

Scotty’s eyes were open, and he blinked a few times. “I…do.”

“Don’t.”

“Hers, I do.” Scotty coughed again.

“Here.” Kelly reached for the cup of ice chips that he had stubbornly insisted be always present. The newest batch was more than half melted. Scotty’s hand tightened on his, so he had only one hand to maneuver the cup towards Scotty.

Scotty sucked on the ice, his eyes never wavering from Kelly’s. He swallowed. “You ready then, Homer?” Scotty’s thumb stroked across the back of Kelly’s hand.

_Come home with me for Thanksgiving. Stay with me_.

They’d go home, and Mom would know. One look at them, and she’d know. He’d been afraid…

“Yes.” He put all his trust in Scotty’s steady gaze. And he found his reward, after all.

The End

_January 2010_


End file.
